Slocum called up all the mothers in the neighborhood to say that all children would be welcome at the lying-in unless their mothers objected. It was the beginning of an enlightened era and no mother wanted to seem unenlightened, so everybody accepted Mrs. Slocum’s invitation. My father said it was the craziest idea he had ever heard in his life. “There must be thirty-five kids in this neighborhood,” he said. “What are they going to do, put up bleachers?” “They have that big basement,” Mother said. “Suppose the cat decides to have her kittens in the hall closet, or under the bed? Poor damn cat. . . .” He looked at me and my little brother, Louis. “Take my advice, don’t go. Be kind to a cat. How would you like to have a baby in front of thirty-five people?” “French queens used to have to,” Louis said, “to prove the succession.” When Louis said things like that, people always raised their eyebrows and whispered to Mother that he must be a genius. He wasn’t, though; he was just one of those people who remembered odd, unrelated facts.
What do You think about My Brother Louis Measures Worms?
